


Safety Words

by Nixiesaurus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:32:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1298332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nixiesaurus/pseuds/Nixiesaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a post-coital haze, Sebastian gets pushed too far by James, after a discussion in private about their worst fears. This is a gift to Thunar, who suggested the prompt!  Please read my fic 'The Chair' to understand Sebastian's fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safety Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thunar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunar/gifts).



The sweat. He knew it was mixed with blood, from the way it ran pink down his arms, and he tried, God knows he did, to keep his sounds muted. James never liked a whiny bitch, and Sebastian knew all too well what the results of even a mewl would earn him. On his knees, his wrists bound before him, the pause in the lashings made the man realise how chilly it was in their bedroom. Theirs, because two weeks, three days, and - what, four hours? - ago, James agreed that the bedroom was theirs to share. That it belonged to both of them. That, in his way, Sebastian had earned it. Moran wondered in that moment, what exactly he had done to earn such a prestigious place among his king? Surely it wasn’t his job… he never went above and beyond what he was expected to do. Instead, the trigger was pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and he never gave more, but he never gave less. He gave just what James wanted. So, perhaps it was something far more personal? Perhaps it had been when James came down with that damnable sickness a few weeks prior, and Sebastian was left to bring him Chinese takeout and tuck him in for a solid week, until the coughing had died down and the fever broke. Of course, the stubborn mick didn’t allow himself to see a doctor, so Sebastian was left to play House and do everything he could to keep his boss from succumbing to his illness.

That evening, Jim had said he cared for his tiger, and that evening, Sebastian blamed it all on the fever. They had opened up, then, the ill Moriarty carrying on a conversation about their worst fears. In the haze of his sickness, Sebastian believed that not a single word was remembered, so he had been completely and utterly honest.

But his mind wandered, on his knees, staring down at the floor where a puddle of his own drool rested from earlier, his cheek still feeling numb from how long it had been pressed to the hardwood flooring. His back bruised, lashes drawing red welts across his skin. His shoulders, dug in from James’ nails, scratched like claws down his upper back. Shivering, every drop of sweat, every bead of blood, felt cool as it ran down his hypersensitive skin. Every muscle was on fire, and it lapped across his nerves and drowned in his lungs. And Sebastian? Oh, he loved being burned alive by James Moriarty.

The Scottish Tawse had been enough of a violent playtoy for the man. It wore him out more than anything, and that had been what he needed. The day had earned him a job that was lackluster, and Sebastian had too much pent up energy to be able to sleep. And then, that’s where James came in, knowing just how to wear the tiger out. Heaving, panting, Sebastian pulled weakly at the restraints around his wrist - a leather black belt, Armani - and stared down at his release that had jet in a few tight streams on the floor in front of his knees. Some painted on his thighs, he didn’t care to remove it, only enjoying the chill of the air on his damp skin, and the shivers from his orgasm that still fluttered through his system.

“I asked you a question, Moran,” Jim’s voice finally hummed through the air, coming into tone like a radio dial to Sebastian’s ears.  
“Sir,” Sebastian huffed out, trying to calm his breathing as his chest rose and fell, “Apologies, sir, repeat, please?”  
“I asked if you wanted more?” the Irishman called, hanging up the tawse on the bedroom wall, behind the damask red and black curtain that hid their playtoys from the common eye.  
“I -” Sebastian stammered, “I - y-yes, sir,” and a swallow, a euphoric sort of smirk crossed the sniper’s lips, “Yes, sir,” he repeated, more sure.

But then came the dragging sound.

It was unmistakable.

Wood.

Wood on wood. A chair on the hardwood floor, legs scraping, and the sound alone made Sebastian’s attention snap upwards. Sweat dripped from his tendrils of blond bangs, hanging down in front of his eyes. Licking his lips, tasting the salt, the man shook his head and looked towards the chair being dragged in front of him at the hands of the Irishman.

“No,” Moran said, almost sharply. He pushed back to sit on his calves, as though physically repelled by the chair, itself. “No,” he repeated, and the fun and games? Oh, they ended quickly. Sebastian’s mood was dropped in an instant from wanting to continue their fun and games. Instead, he shook his head and watched as Jim pointed to the chair, for the tiger to sit. “James -” Sebastian spat out, and that in itself was a safety word, if one ever existed between the two. It was a name Sebastian never said in the bedroom, under any circumstances. Sir? Sure. Daddy? Absolutely. But never, ever, James.

“Why not?” Jim smirked, his lips twisted up into some sort of sick simper, a grin of absolute delight at the way the colour drained from the tiger’s face. “Oh, did you think I wasn’t paying attention?” the magpie crooned, walking behind the chair, his heavy footsteps slipping steady on the floor, “the other night, when you told me how terrified you were of old, wooden chairs?’

Mistake. It had been a mistake to open up, and now Sebastian knew it. James always took delight in breaking the tiger in every way that he could… but this? Oh, this was off limits. This was something Sebastian couldn’t handle. This was the one fucking thing -

“Up. In it.” Jim ordered.  
A rock felt as though it sunk in Sebastian’s stomach. His voice grew quiet, his eyes defiant - trying to mask the hurt from Jim using something like this against him. “No, sir,” he whispered.

It had taken James all of four seconds to walk around the chair and backhand Sebastian. The word ‘No’ from Moran had been banned in the house; everything was a ‘Yes, sir,’ or better. Crack! The ‘No,’ had earned him a backhand across the face, smearing the sweat and blood from his already busted lip in a frost over his cheek. His head turned, Sebastian spit the mixture of blood and saliva onto the floor, turning his head back to look up at his king. 

He repeated, “No.”  
James’ hand drew up into the air again for a second strike to be delivered. Readied, Sebastian cringed and closed his eyes, turning his head suddenly. It was the sort of gesture a terrified child delivers in the midst of a beating, and that alone made the magpie freeze in place. Sebastian, in all his years under James’ upper hand, had never shunned away from him in such a way. The tiger had never grit his teeth and locked his jaw. He had never tensed up and shivered, the way that he had started to.

And perhaps, James understood that Sebastian had been telling the truth, when he told him of his fears. It was enough of a realisation to make the criminal pause, staring down at his strong sniper - naked, bleeding, shaking. If Jim Moriarty had a heart at all, it came out, then, when his hand loosened and dropped, his body squatting in front of Sebastian’s to reach down and undo the belt around his wrists.

There were no apologies. There never would be, not from Jim, but that didn’t matter, because the soft fingers brushing Sebastian’s hair back, and the touch that cradled his face… oh, it was enough. The tiger turned his head downward, panting slightly, his entire body tense at the prospect of what almost happened. He was sure James could connect the dots - literally. That he had seen the scars on the back of Sebastian’s hand, that he knew they were from nails. That the fear of something simple like a chair showed trauma from childhood… from Sir Augustus Moran.

Jim cradled Sebastian’s face in his hands, and held it there, until the man stopped shaking. Taking a seat in the chair in front of the sniper, the criminal leaned forward and kissed Sebastian’s forehead, allowing him a few moments to breathe, before he sighed a soft, “Come on… let’s get you cleaned up, tiger, my tiger.”


End file.
